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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230608">A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Moments (A Continuiance)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust'>beauty_love_stardust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Tale of Scarlet Works [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Brother/Brother Incest, Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, F/M, Heavy Angst, Incest, Love Confessions, Lust, M/M, Psychological Torture, Regret, Repressed Memories, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:47:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><br/><i>There was something Fred wanted him to remember ... something that called to him ... </i> </p><p>  <i><br/><b>(AN: I have had a slew of requests for me to continue my George/Ginny fanfiction, and it also holds a close space in my heart due to it being the first bit of fiction I ever wrote on archive, and so this is going to be a place for my snippets and whatever I want to pull out of their story and elaborate on. There may be a bunch of different elaborated tales, or just a few, but over time I will probably be updating this and adding to it. Some of the snippets/parts may feed into each other, while others won't. I will vary in points of view between George and Ginny, because in my original fic you only see Ginny's perspective, so it will be fun to show you George's from time to time.  But know, this is all a cannon companion to its parent fic. (A Tale of Scarlet: Forbidden Moments) and I would advise you to read that first, before reading this, so you get what is happening and why. But, without further ado! I hope you enjoy this work!)</b><br/></i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fred Weasley/George Weasley, George Weasley/Ginny Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Tale of Scarlet Works [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1112349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Moments (A Continuiance)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>This is a sequence that happens post-Forbidden Moments Fic. Sometime after their third child (that is mentioned at the end of their fic) is born.  I always feel when I go back and re-read that work, that I left out some key plot-lines regarding George and his changed behaviors, and particular mourning for Fred. I always planned on adding this in, but I didn't really want to throw it into the main fic. So, I let the little questions linger regarding whether or not some of Ginny's thoughts and curiosities about George at the end, amount to anything. Well I hope this answers some of those burning questions! Let me know in the comment section what other types of things you would like to see further fleshed out from my original fanfiction! You never know, I might just oblige you! Enjoy my dears! </i>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>A Slew of Forgotten Memories</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>The wound is the place</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>where the light</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>enters you</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>George’s POV</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>I can never forget the first time I felt forbidden longings for her. Nestled in the curve of my arm – she laid – in <em>blissful</em> ignorance. Pert little lips grazed along the crevice of my neckline and her tired form had nearly fallen to sleep there, <em>sprawled</em> atop of me.</p><p>Little thighs spread so slight as she staved off the summer scorch.</p><p>I remember the <em>heat</em> of her. The <strong><em>itch</em></strong> in my lower half. And the <em>call</em> of her lips to <strong>mine</strong>.</p><p>I <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> to steal her first kiss. I wanted to <strong><em>touch</em></strong> her right where her <em>thighs</em> gaped open.</p><p>But I <em>knew</em> better.</p><p>She had been <em>five</em> and I had been <strong><em>eight</em></strong>.</p><p>I had never quite felt <strong><em>that</em></strong> twinge before – <strong><em>that</em></strong> <strong><em>pull</em></strong>.</p><p>And when I asked Fred later, I remember how he told me it was natural to <em>want</em> female touch.</p><p>But I didn’t just want <strong><em>any</em></strong> female’s touch … I’d wanted <strong><em>Ginny’s</em></strong>. Not just <strong><em>any</em></strong> female would have <em>sufficed</em> – and I had <strong><em>omitted</em></strong> that stipulation from Fred’s knowledge.</p><p>It was the <em>first</em> time I <strong>willfully</strong> lied to my twin – It was a <strong><em>day</em></strong> of firsts.</p><p>Though I never expressly <strong>told</strong> Fred – <strong><em>Never</em></strong><em> <strong>told</strong> <strong>anyone</strong></em> – about what later became twisted and needful between Ginny and I; I believe Fred <strong><em>knew</em></strong>.</p><p>It was the subtle little things he did that <em>indicated</em> to me of all that he held back; yet <em>longed</em> to say.</p><p>When I broke it off with Ginny <strong><em>one</em></strong> final time after I was settled outside of Hogwarts with Fred – I remember the <em>anguish</em>. How my stomach <strong>twisted</strong> and turned. How I felt the toil of her magic as it <em>sought</em> my own. And I remember Fred found me the night after I <strong>left</strong> her – said nothing to <em>indicate</em> his knowledge of what I <strong>had</strong> with Ginny, but enough to bring bottles of Firewhisky to accompany the <em>single</em> one I’d had earlier, and settled down to drink <strong><em>with</em></strong> me.</p><p>I remember how he nuzzled his <em>chin</em> against my shoulder and we settled <strong>near</strong> the fireplace – in the flat over our joke shop – for the <strong>longest</strong> time until the fire burned away and only <strong><em>embers</em></strong> remained.</p><p>He <em>knew</em> – he <strong><em>had</em></strong> to have known – that my heart was <strong><em>broken</em></strong>.</p><p>Only Fred <strong><em>could</em></strong> have known that.</p><p><strong><em>I </em></strong>had always known when he’d have a falling out with <em>Angelina</em>; even <strong><em>before</em></strong> he’d tell me himself.</p><p>Twins can <strong><em>always</em></strong> feel each other – we were no different.</p><p>I felt the magic <em>tear</em> and <strong>sever</strong> between us when he died.</p><p>Felt the deep root of his light <strong><em>stolen</em></strong> from inside of me.</p><p>Now, <em>Ginny</em> is the sole tether that binds me in the little flicker of <strong>light</strong> that remains.</p><p> I <em>wish</em> I had <strong><em>just</em></strong> told him; I wish I could have <em>mustered</em> the courage to speak the words aloud.</p><p>That <em>pain</em> is what stays with me. Lingers in the deepest <em>part</em> of my pit and core. I want to fade away when I think of what I <strong><em>lost</em></strong> with Fred’s final breath. And what I gained in Ginny again when the <em>haze</em> of cloud and smoke rose again from my mind.</p><p>I feel the <strong><em>pull</em></strong> to Ginny. I <em>smell</em> the <em>essence</em> of fire ash on her skin. And <strong><em>shiver</em></strong>.</p><p>Shudders rise up my spine when her rough padded fingers <em>brush</em> my skin. I feel detached from the <strong><em>life</em></strong> I held before.</p><p>Even though I <em>promised</em> I would try – try for <em>her</em>. For <em>our</em> babies.</p><p>There still remains so much <em>uncertainty</em> in my mind’s eye.</p><p>I feel only <strong><em>half</em></strong> of what I did once, with Ginny.</p><p>Most troublesome of all, I sometimes only <em>feel</em> when I am buried <strong>deep</strong> inside her sex. Or I take her from <strong><em>behind</em></strong>.</p><p>I <em>inhale</em> – and her scent <strong>consumes</strong> me. She has twined her skin around my torso. Clung as though I might <strong>fade</strong> in the night. Her breasts are <strong><em>warm</em></strong> and full of milk; her swollen nipples prod my side.</p><p>I can’t recall the dream I <strong>woke</strong> from – but <strong><em>Fred</em></strong> was in it. All smiles and <em>laughs</em>.</p><p>I always <em>remember</em> him <strong><em>that</em></strong> way.</p><p><em>Happy</em> – <strong><em>carefree</em></strong>.</p><p>I hear Ginny <em>huff</em> in her sleep.</p><p>I remember the <em>passionate</em> love we made just hours ago. I can recall the sweat stuck to my forehead and all <strong>illusions</strong> of the past caved inward.</p><p>My chair near the fireplace is <em>calling</em> me – <strong><em>Fred</em></strong> is once more, <strong><em>calling</em></strong> to me. I desperately want to answer <strong><em>that</em></strong> call – to fade into the past for just a <strong><em>moment</em></strong>. It’s like he wants me to find something hidden. <strong><em>Buried</em></strong>.</p><p>I make to move and Ginny slides down my chest. All at once her hold <em>tightens</em> and draws me back down.</p><p>“Don’t <strong>leave</strong>. I <em>know</em> where you are going – <strong><em>Don’t</em></strong> go.”</p><p>I <em>shiver</em>.</p><p>“You can’t <em>know</em>.” It was a simple answer to a <em>simple</em> statement. However, nothing is ever so <em>simple</em> between us.</p><p>“You were going to be with <em>Fred</em>. I want you to stay <strong><em>here</em></strong> … stay with <em>me</em>. <strong><em>Please</em></strong>, George. You leave for <strong>hours</strong> … sometimes <strong><em>entire</em></strong> days.”</p><p>Another spark of chill <strong><em>ripples</em></strong> through me.</p><p>She can’t understand how it <em>feels</em> to be without him. To be on a separate plane to the man I was <strong>born</strong> with. I shared a womb with Fred. And right now, he <strong><em>wants</em></strong> something <strong><em>from</em></strong> me.</p><p>Ginny is <em>special</em> -- but so is <strong><em>Fred</em></strong>.</p><p>I am torn between a <em>ghost</em> and a fleshy <em>goddess</em> sin.</p><p>“I won’t be <strong><em>long</em></strong>.” Determinedly I try to move again.</p><p>Her hand snakes down. Brushes <em>overtly</em> warm fingers over my flaccid bulge. I catch on <strong><em>too</em></strong> late. Far too late to prevent her. I <strong><em>always</em></strong> catch on too late.</p><p>And I <strong><em>moan</em></strong>.</p><p>“<em>Ginny</em> …” Like a prayer – half a <strong><em>sob</em></strong>. I swell in her grasp.</p><p>My skin is <em>cold</em> as ice – heartbeat <strong><em>low</em></strong> and sporadic.</p><p>I <strong><em>need</em></strong> to kiss her. And the <em>need</em> only builds as she <strong>senselessly</strong> strokes until I shiver with the pleasure. With sheer <strong><em>sensation</em></strong>.</p><p>“<strong><em>Stay</em></strong> with me …”</p><p>Her plea <em>rattles</em> my vision. I breathe in and <em>sigh</em> in lust. And visions of Fred <em>fade</em>. Burrowed down deep under. And I <em>cry</em> into her skin with a muffled sound.</p><p>There lays <strong><em>shame</em></strong> in visions of Fred – and with Ginny there is <strong><em>eviscerating</em></strong> shame, too, but she is <strong><em>here</em></strong> … and Fred is <strong><em>not</em></strong> … so maybe it’s for the best that those memories that are the <strong><em>real</em></strong> reason I <em>know</em> Fred <strong><em>knew</em></strong> … <strong><em>sleep</em></strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Ten years ago.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>The sweat <strong>soaks</strong> under my sweater and seeps into my skin. I hear the crackle of the fireplace. I teeter on the edge of wanting to <strong>dive</strong> into those crackling flames.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ginny is nearing the </em>
  <strong>age</strong>
  <em> of a woman – fully grown in her breasts, in her hips. I felt it last night, in the way she </em>
  <strong>occupied</strong>
  <em> my lap. In the sweet rosemary of her scent that reminds me of childhood and youth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I knew when I whispered </em>
  <strong>stories</strong>
  <em> of Christmas into her ear that she </em>
  <strong>isn’t</strong>
  <em> a little girl anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She will have her monthly plague soon. The kisses and nights we share would soon have had consequences that neither of us could </em>
  <strong>ever</strong>
  <em> embark upon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mom and Dad would disown me if they ever knew how I <strong>corrupted</strong> my only sister.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She once looked up to me with starry-eyes and shadowy smiles that </em>
  <strong>rivaled</strong>
  <em> all else. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Little Ginny, had been my <strong>favorite</strong> and I had been <strong>hers</strong>. Her best friend and the one sibling she could <strong>rely</strong> upon, to protect her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I haven’t </em>
  <strong>protected</strong>
  <em> her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve </em>
  <strong>bedded</strong>
  <em> her. Made tender, sweet </em>
  <strong>love</strong>
  <em> to her …</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And it’s </em>
  <strong>wrong</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ve shattered <strong>both</strong> of our hearts, but I cannot see what else there is to be done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will not condemn her to a <strong>childless</strong> existence as my lover. And if she had continued to lay with me, she would have needed to </em>
  <strong>begin</strong>
  <em> using contraceptive charms. Precautions against any potential babes we might have <strong>accidently</strong> created. And I couldn’t ask her to do <strong>that</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because once it started, it would </em>
  <strong>never</strong>
  <em> end.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, I choose the painful route now, that would hopefully steer her toward the <strong>future</strong> she deserves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A future where love and <strong>happiness</strong> have no bounds. No chains on the </em>
  <strong>end</strong>
  <em>. And no restrictions on potential <strong>offspring</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ginny deserves to be a <strong>mother</strong>. She deserves to have a </em>
  <strong>husband</strong>
  <em> that can claim her before the eyes of the <strong>world</strong>. And we both know that can <strong>never</strong> be me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She won’t admit it, but I <strong>hope</strong> she knows it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Understands why I’ve done </em>
  <strong>this</strong>
  <em> to her – <strong>again</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, I now sit, with <strong>tears</strong> in my eyes, and a heart so heavy with lead that I fear I might </em>
  <strong>die</strong>
  <em> from the exquisite pain – while I <strong>listen</strong> to the fire-flames pop and click.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t know what I will need to say to Fred to make him understand why I won’t be returning to the burrow as often as I was … he is my <strong>twin</strong> … I pray he will just </em>
  <strong>understand</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Understand that I can </em>
  <strong>never</strong>
  <em> speak about it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I <strong>can’t</strong>. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He would be disgusted with me, too. <strong>Wouldn’t</strong> he?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My sins are purely my own, but we own a <strong>shop</strong> together. We have known <strong>every</strong> secret each other has to tell, since time </em>
  <strong>began</strong>
  <em> for us.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>Every</strong>
  <em> secret, aside from </em>
  <strong>this</strong>
  <em> one.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>Ginny’s</strong>
  <em> and </em>
  <strong>mine</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sudden creak of our flat door opens and I am not yet prepared to have a conversation with him – or <strong>anyone</strong>. Nor explain why I’ve run out on Christmas festivities at The Burrow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he doesn’t </em>
  <strong>ask</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He comes forward and sits in his own chair, alongside mine, and extends a bottle of Firewhisky from what I can see is an entire </em>
  <strong>pack</strong>
  <em> of Firewhiskies, for me to <strong>indulge</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I glance over at him and can see the </em>
  <strong>glum</strong>
  <em> expression on his face. And I wonder how much he </em>
  <strong>knows</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s the first time I’ve </em>
  <strong>wondered</strong>
  <em>. Because last time I left Ginny – last time I broke </em>
  <strong>both</strong>
  <em> of our hearts, Fred hadn’t acknowledged my <strong>frequent</strong> agitation and dumpiness. Nor had he acknowledged my sudden break-up with Bertha, soon after I began spending </em>
  <strong>all</strong>
  <em> of my spare time, <strong>again</strong>, with Ginny.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So why </em>
  <strong>this</strong>
  <em> time?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was my aura really so changed, </em>
  <strong>this</strong>
  <em> time?</em>
</p><p><em>I’ve given Ginny so much <strong>more</strong> of my heart, than the first time I cut off all contact. It’s been years and <strong>years</strong> that I’ve given to Ginny. I lost myself in her and loved myself </em><strong>with</strong><em> her. I’ve loved </em><strong>her</strong><em>. And it hasn’t </em><strong>just</strong><em> been a schoolboy crush – it’s been </em>real<em>, <strong>unbreakable</strong>, love.</em></p><p>
  <em>“You don’t </em>
  <strong>have</strong>
  <em> to talk about it,” Fred’s voice was like relief and gentility. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Even though we’ve spent quite a bit of time apart (so I can spend it all with Ginny) he still </em>
  <strong>knows</strong>
  <em> my moods. Still knows <strong>me</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I feel like my heart is going to rip in half. So, I take the Firewhisky he offered – and take down a <strong>long</strong>, swig.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I see out of the corner of my eye, that he too has begun to drink.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bottle after bottle empties between us, and the more Firewhisky that burns inside me, the more I lose myself to the overwhelming sensation of <strong>falling</strong>. The surge in my belly that makes me </em>
  <strong>want</strong>
  <em> – the way </em>
  <strong>Ginny</strong>
  <em> makes me </em>
  <strong>want</strong>
  <em> – And I </em>
  <strong>need</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s like a sudden and <strong>tight</strong> coil in my belly. Something, wound up and ready to spring away. Almost <strong>inconceivably</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I realize, from somewhere in my haze, that I’ve began to rely on Ginny as a sort of sexual frustration outlet. Without <strong>her</strong>, and with the knowledge that I’ll <strong>never</strong> have her again, my body has decidedly spiraled into a circuit of frustration and aggravation, fueled by the alcohol, <strong>especially</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My mind can’t expel the thoughts of Ginny. The realization of <strong>what</strong> I’ve done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And most <strong>pointedly</strong> – the heartache I now <strong>feel</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I smash my sixth – <strong>empty</strong> – bottle into the fireplace, watch the glass shatter into bits and fly this way and that, before I <strong>sob</strong> into my hands. Feel the absolute hatred in my <strong>bones</strong> for what I’ve done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And my soul reaches out. It reaches for what’s </em>
  <strong>there</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when I open my eyes, Fred is on his </em>
  <strong>knees</strong>
  <em> in front of me. The most anguished expression in his hazel eyes, that I’ve ever seen reflected <strong>back</strong> at me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I wonder, briefly, what </em>
  <strong>mine</strong>
  <em> must look like, if my twin’s looks like </em>
  <strong>this</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I don’t really <strong>have</strong> to wonder, because I </em>
  <strong>know</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I just <strong>know</strong>, that I look like I’ve just lost the <strong>only</strong> thing that matters to me in all the world – and in a way, I <strong>have</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But it’s </em>
  <strong>my</strong>
  <em> fault.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I did it for <strong>her</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’d do it <strong>again</strong>, for <strong>her</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Fred is <strong>here</strong>. And I feel his <strong>touch</strong> on my cheeks and his thumbs swipe away my <strong>tears</strong> with a gentle, pull, that tightens the already raging coil in my belly. And I </em>
  <strong>keen</strong>
  <em> – and </em>
  <strong>falter</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I <strong>want</strong> to tell him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In this moment of lowered ambitions and uprising heart palpitations – I’ve never <strong>wanted</strong> to more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I </em>
  <strong>don’t</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Instead, I let my hands reach for his sweater. Feel the warmth of the knitted wool, Mum gave him last year for Christmas, rub between my fingers, and I do something <strong>worse</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>Much</strong>
  <em> worse.</em>
</p><p><em>I feel myself lean in. I feel his lips are soft and swollen against mine – and I <strong>taste</strong> him. </em>Cinnamon<em> … <strong>marshmallows</strong> – and overwhelming </em><strong>bursts</strong><em> of Firewhisky.</em></p><p>
  <em>He <strong>should</strong> push me away – because what </em>
  <strong>I’ve</strong>
  <em> done crosses more than just a line, it crosses <strong>us</strong> into new territory, entirely. Worse than when we’d masturbate in unison, under the covers of our <strong>separate</strong> beds, as children. </em>
  <strong>Before</strong>
  <em> Ginny.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It pushes us further into ventures that were </em>
  <strong>only</strong>
  <em> mine and Ginny’s.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Kisses with Bertha <strong>never</strong> counted. Because she didn’t matter. But Fred <strong>does</strong> – he <strong>does</strong>!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Fred must <strong>feel</strong> my frustration – and my <strong>pain</strong>. He can probably </em>
  <strong>taste</strong>
  <em> it on my tongue, even – and here it in my </em>
  <strong>whimpers</strong>
  <em>. And he <strong>loves</strong> me. Probably as much as <strong>Ginny</strong> loves me – and he </em>
  <strong>knows</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know <strong>now</strong>, that he must </em>
  <strong>know</strong>
  <em> what I’ve done with Ginny – why </em>
  <strong>else</strong>
  <em> would he allow this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why else would he have <strong>come</strong> to me with alcohol and the promise that I didn’t <strong>have</strong> to talk about any of it, if he </em>
  <strong>didn’t</strong>
  <em>?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can’t <strong>ask</strong> him. I can <strong>never</strong> ask him, though – and I <strong>won’t</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I won’t <strong>ever</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fred doesn’t think to <strong>question</strong> me – or what I’ve <strong>done</strong>. He only draws me in closer until I’m inclined forward in my armchair, with a <strong>raging</strong> fire in my loins, and a thousand <strong>prickles</strong> across my skin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He helps when I stand and draw him <strong>towards</strong> the bedroom. We stayed locked in our kisses and I try not to think about what <strong>this</strong> is – not in my drunken, altered state.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fred strips me of my sweater – and I strip <strong>him</strong> of his. Our chests are bare, and I try not to think about his </em>
  <strong>flat</strong>
  <em> chest, his slight <strong>peachy</strong> fuzz on his abdomen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where Ginny is <strong>soft</strong>, Fred is <strong>chiseled</strong> and <strong>coarse</strong>, like </em>
  <strong>me</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I <strong>can’t</strong> think about that right now. Because I will lose myself to so </em>
  <strong>much</strong>
  <em> guilt and shame, that I will not be able to think straight, come morning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wrestle him onto the bed, but I don’t meet with much resistance. I feel the willingness, if not <strong>eagerness</strong>, in his kisses to give me this. To let me <strong>take</strong> what I must.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s always been the less-abashed one, of the pair of us. Where I feel <strong>shame</strong>, Fred feels </em>
  <strong>resolve</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that makes the heightened, exasperating needs that much more <strong>frustrating</strong>, because I know its wrong. I fucking <strong>know</strong> it is – but here he is, to touch my skin and eagerly kiss me into <strong>proceeding</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I need to sate the emotions and I </em>
  <strong>need</strong>
  <em> to do it, <strong>now</strong>. Before the urgencies <strong>eat</strong> me alive. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I reach down to his trousers and feel the <strong>pulse</strong> of his arousal. The bulge is <strong>just</strong> there, tight and compacted underneath the zipper and <strong>layers</strong> of fabric. I force the button through its hole, and yank the opening in his trousers until they are <strong>sliding</strong> down his thighs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I pump his length, search his eyes with my identical ones, for his <strong>reaction</strong> – and find his pupils have <strong>dilated</strong> with lust. His hands reach up to square against my cheeks and yank me down to fashion our lips <strong>together</strong>, again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I moan, this time. And it’s a <strong>strangled</strong>, agonized thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because I </em>
  <strong>want</strong>
  <em> Ginny, but I </em>
  <strong>have</strong>
  <em> him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I feel shame for wanting <strong>her</strong>, when I’m about to seek </em>
  <strong>comfort</strong>
  <em>, in <strong>him</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But there’s an unspoken thought in my mind. One that will <strong>forever</strong> stay with me – <strong>shame</strong> me, more.</em>
</p><p><em>With Fred there can </em><strong>never</strong><em> be babies. Never be contorted, gnarled-up, <strong>offspring</strong>. All there can be, is <strong>desperation</strong>, </em>love<em>, and </em><strong>shame</strong><em>. But nothing more.</em></p><p>
  <em>“<strong>Please</strong> –” I hear him stammer out, and I wonder for a second if he wants me to stop – but his eyes tell me he wants me – <strong>inside</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I feel the <strong>shock</strong> of it in my chest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I shouldn’t because I <strong>knew</strong> where this was going. I <strong>knew</strong>. When I wrestled him to the sheets and I laid <strong>out</strong> on top of him, on </em>
  <strong>his</strong>
  <em> mattress. I knew, coated in <strong>his</strong> scent, where I’d <strong>end</strong> up finding that temporary relief from my aching heart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I use my spit to slicken the space between his cheeks, push a <strong>finger</strong> up into his hole – and feel him gasp and <strong>clench</strong> for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My eyes immediately <strong>cloud</strong> over again, with <strong>lust</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can hardly think through the cascade of thickened fog and I certainly can’t <strong>hear</strong> through the rush of my own blood. Such a <strong>chaotic</strong> urgency, that Ginny drove in me – that is now, </em>
  <strong>tonight</strong>
  <em>, all Fred.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I open my jeans, slick up my surging erection, and jerk myself <strong>up</strong> inside of my twin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Our bodies come together with this fiery <strong>heat</strong> that I can never quite hope to describe, but it <strong>feels</strong> like coming home. And I groan in my <strong>throat</strong> with a raw, guttural sound, and attach my lips to Fred’s again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start to move <strong>in</strong> him, jerking the entire mattress with the <strong>force</strong> of my ruts and I feel him shiver and </em>
  <strong>shudder</strong>
  <em> under me. His fingers find my strands of <strong>matching</strong> red hair, while the others grip my shoulder, piercing my bicep hard enough to <strong>leave</strong> a bruise.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The tight feel of him is unlike anything I’ve <strong>ever</strong> known. Being inside of Ginny was like <strong>fire</strong>, but being inside of Fred … is like <strong>scorch</strong> … like </em>
  <strong>earth</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s tight, untouched in <strong>this</strong> way, a virgin to men and </em>
  <strong>their</strong>
  <em> touches. But I suspect he’s <strong>bedded</strong> Angelina, at least once. But none of that matters, </em>
  <strong>tonight</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tonight – <strong>this</strong> is for </em>
  <strong>me</strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p><em>I know he’d do </em>anything<em> for me – and he </em><strong>is</strong><em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>But I suspect it’s for </em>
  <strong>him</strong>
  <em>, too.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I suspect his love runs deeper in this <strong>cadence</strong> than I <strong>ever</strong> knew, and maybe I’ve been </em>
  <strong>blind</strong>
  <em> all this time to it, and maybe I always <strong>should</strong> have been – but there is no taking back what <strong>sins</strong> I’ve committed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“George …” he cries my name so sweetly and I <strong>cup</strong> his waist with my calloused hands – and <strong>rut</strong> in a frenzy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to break apart and I <strong>do</strong>, when I cum <strong>deep</strong> in his rear passage. I feel the pumps of my seed and the <strong>release</strong> of my grief and tears, as I let go of that <strong>final</strong> betrayal in my heart for <strong>Ginny</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I reach between us and <strong>pump</strong> the length of him that still throbs, <strong>unsated</strong> – and I feel him spill and <strong>burst</strong> over my fingers, across his flat tummy and I <strong>sob</strong> my relief.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I kiss him <strong>again</strong>, drive my hips into him a <strong>few</strong> more times, just to remember how it <strong>feels</strong> and finally pull out. I feel the rush of </em>
  <strong>my</strong>
  <em> seed and </em>
  <strong>his</strong>
  <em> blood pool out onto the mattress in my wake and sigh against the cusp of his neckline.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to tell him <strong>why</strong> I’ve done this to him – I want to <strong>explain</strong> my brokenness, but I know <strong>he</strong> knows.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, I <strong>don’t</strong> say anything. I just let him touch my spine, count the bumps there. I let him <strong>kiss</strong> my cheek, then my lips, and I shiver in his arms, because I know how <strong>sick</strong> I am for what I’ve done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I pray he won’t <strong>hate</strong> me one day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because <strong>we’re</strong> drunk – and this was for <strong>me</strong>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fred –” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I start to whisper in his ear, but he <strong>shushes</strong> me, with a quiet, soothing noise and says, “I </em>
  <strong>know</strong>
  <em> …” and I don’t know <strong>what</strong> he’s admitted to.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whether he admits that he knew <strong>why</strong> I needed this, or that he knew </em>
  <strong>how</strong>
  <em> I felt.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Either way, we just <strong>lie</strong> there, afterward. Basking in the glow, until my eyes grow heavy and I fall to <strong>sleep</strong> in his arms.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>I <em>rip</em> into awareness as the flash of <strong><em>that</em></strong> memory peaks in my brain. It’s like a <em>ripple</em> – a <strong><em>shudder</em></strong>.</p><p>Like Fred <em>smiling</em> at me. And it’s so <em>warm</em> – so <strong><em>real</em></strong>.</p><p>I realize where I am – buried <em>inside</em> Ginny, come over the edge of orgasmic bliss – and <strong>that’s</strong> when the memories resurface.</p><p>The ones Fred beckoned for me to come <strong><em>find</em></strong> in the sanctuary of <strong><em>his</em></strong> armchair – in the place where it <strong>all</strong> began – but Ginny <strong><em>prevented</em></strong> me.</p><p>And now they’ve <strong><em>come</em></strong> while I’m in <strong><em>her</em></strong> ….</p><p>The guilt I swept under the rug when I found Fred had left me for that <em>other</em> place.</p><p>The nights of <strong>drunkenness</strong> – of steeled-fire that were just <strong><em>ours</em></strong>. That saw me through my nights <strong><em>without</em></strong> Ginny.</p><p>Those forbidden moments that gave me <em>strength</em> and release. The strength to <strong>rebuke</strong> all Ginny’s advances, her advances before Fred was <strong>ripped</strong> away …</p><p>I’d erased them <strong><em>all</em></strong>.</p><p>It’d been easy because losing him was like losing my <em>soul</em>. My heart – my <strong><em>blood</em></strong> – and I’d run cold with the proof of it, for <strong><em>so</em></strong> long – <strong><em>so</em></strong> long … and <em>now</em> … now all of that need and that <strong>shelter</strong> I sought with Fred – it’s all <em>here</em> – it’s all <strong><em>back</em></strong> in my mind.</p><p>The haze of alcohol could only keep it sheltered away for <strong><em>so</em></strong> long.</p><p>For so many nights … <strong>years</strong> … it’s been <strong><em>years</em></strong> …</p><p>He let me <em>indulge</em> in Firewhisky until I was so intoxicated and <strong>needy</strong> for Ginny that I was <strong>blinded</strong> by it. Then, I’d seek out <strong><em>his</em></strong> skin. Paint a map with my fingers and <em>kiss</em> between his bunched shoulder-blades, as I took <strong>him</strong> from behind, bent <em>over</em> the counter, or on his mattress, hunkered over and on his back. Sometimes on his knees.</p><p>And the reason I need Ginny on her knees, <em>sometimes</em>, becomes horrifically clear.</p><p>Because I’d <strong>betrayed</strong> my word to her.</p><p>I’d promised it was just <em>her</em> and <strong>me</strong>. That no one else had <strong><em>ever</em></strong> come between … and Fred <em>hadn’t</em> … not <strong><em>really</em></strong> … but he’d been <em>there</em> for me. He’d let me take what I <em>needed</em> and <strong><em>loved</em></strong> me throughout the rooms of <em>this</em> flat.</p><p>He’d been <strong><em>safe</em></strong>.</p><p>He couldn’t give me <em>babies</em> … He could only give me <strong><em>pleasure</em></strong> … and his <em>heart</em> … but I’d been too in love with <strong>Ginny</strong> to <strong><em>claim</em></strong> his heart.</p><p>Just <strong><em>his</em></strong> skin.</p><p>So <strong><em>much</em></strong> of his skin …</p><p>I remember his <strong><em>body</em></strong>, when he’d been pulled into the Great Hall, and I’d <strong><em>mourned</em></strong> over his body … so many of the bruises were <strong><em>my</em></strong> bruises … Bruises I’d claimed on him. Not all were from the heavy stone that <em>fell</em> on him.</p><p>I tear off of Ginny, because I can’t be in <strong><em>her</em></strong> – and think about <strong><em>him</em></strong>.</p><p>It’s not how <strong><em>this</em></strong> works. It’s <em>never</em> how its <strong><em>worked</em></strong> …</p><p>And I feel her fingers <strong>caress</strong> my spine and <em>stroke</em> my neck. And soft tones are cooing, from her lips.</p><p>“George? <strong><em>Baby</em></strong>? What’s <em>wrong</em> …? What’s the <em>matter</em>?” she asks me so innocently, because she can’t possibly feel what<strong><em> I</em></strong> do in this instant.</p><p>Oh God … <strong><em>this</em></strong> is what Fred’s been trying to communicate to me all <em>along</em>.</p><p>That he <strong><em>knew</em></strong> … that he was <strong><em>okay</em></strong> with it. With me and <strong><em>Gin</em></strong>.</p><p>Because he <em>felt</em> how I <em>loved</em> her. He probably <strong>knew</strong> it in my <em>kisses</em> – in my <strong><em>touches</em></strong> – in my <strong><em>anguish</em></strong> and <em>grief</em>.</p><p>Fuck – I <strong><em>used</em></strong> him.</p><p>So <em>many</em> times, I <strong><em>used</em></strong> him …</p><p>I used him as my <strong><em>own</em></strong> and he died knowing how I loved our <strong><em>sister</em></strong> … but <em>not</em> him … not <strong><em>that</em></strong> way … not the way <strong>he</strong> loved <em>me</em> …</p><p>I sob until I <em>shudder</em>. I want to sob out my <strong>heart</strong>, but it isn’t possible not to <strong><em>feel</em></strong> this. I feel <strong><em>all</em></strong> of it.</p><p>All of this pain I’ve avoided by keeping Fred a carefree and innocent little boy in my mindscape all these years. By making the alcohol <strong><em>blur</em></strong> and contort what was <em>real</em>. What <strong><em>happened</em></strong>.</p><p>It’s all <em>so</em> fucked up.</p><p>And Ginny doesn’t <strong><em>know</em></strong> ….</p><p>I look back to Ginny. I finally look up and I draw away from her touch. I don’t <em>deserve</em> that soothing touch – not right <em>now</em> …</p><p>She offers me a wounded glance – eyebrows furrowed and searches my eyes.</p><p>She seeks answers I don’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> to give – but that she <em>deserves</em>, all the same.</p><p>“Fred <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> me to <strong>remember</strong> …” My voice comes out in a croak. I don’t even <em>sound</em> like me – I sound <strong>hoarse</strong> … frightful.</p><p>Ginny’s eyebrows draw taut. “<em>Remember</em>?” she coaxes, leaving me to elaborate.</p><p>“Ginny I –” My voice is strangled – I don’t <strong>want</strong> to tell her. But these secrets will eat me to the <em>bone</em> if I do not.</p><p>“Tell me what you remember. It’s <strong><em>okay</em></strong> …” She brushes my cheek in accompaniment to her sweeping words and I dare to <strong><em>seek</em></strong> that <strong>offered</strong> comfort.</p><p>That <strong><em>brush</em></strong> of warmth.</p><p>“After <em>that</em> Christmas … after I broke it <strong>off</strong> with you … I was <em>upset</em> … I was <em>so</em> upset and I … I <strong>drank</strong> so much … so <strong><em>much</em></strong> Firewhisky …” I shudder and ache with the memory.</p><p>I try not to look at Ginny – at her exposed breasts uncovered by the blankets strewn nearby. I try not to <strong><em>want</em></strong> her right now, as I’m <em>unfinished</em> and throbbing like <strong>hell</strong> between my thighs. Leaky and <em>aching</em> for her. But I <strong>deserve</strong> this – it’s punishment, that <strong><em>more</em></strong> than fits the crime. I was on the <strong><em>verge</em></strong> when I’d tugged out of her.</p><p>“I … I <em>wanted</em> the ache to go away … I hurt so much …” I can’t read the <em>expression</em> on her face. I can only see the <strong>line</strong> of her mouth, unmoving. Letting me <em>unburden</em> my soul.</p><p>“And Fred … Fred <em>let</em> me … <strong><em>he let me</em></strong> …” I almost obliterate <em>myself</em> into bits. I almost cave into an <strong><em>ocean</em></strong> of oblivion right here on <strong>this</strong> bed – what was once <strong><em>his</em></strong> bed. I deserve to die. It should have been <em>me</em>, crushed under all those stones from the wall. Not <em>him</em>.</p><p>Not <strong><em>him</em></strong> …</p><p>Ginny’s eyes do widen, now. And I see little speckles of tears beginning in the rims. She <em>understands</em> – of course she <strong>must</strong>. And my belly <em>wrenches</em> in an <em>icy</em> knot.</p><p>“George –”</p><p>She reaches for my arm and I tug away.</p><p>“<em>Look</em> at <strong>me</strong>, Ginny … I buried these memories away for a <strong><em>reason</em></strong> … I <em>couldn’t</em> … I <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> face them … what I <strong><em>did</em></strong> with him … because I <em>couldn’t</em> have you … I <strong><em>wouldn’t</em></strong> have you … and I … I led him <em>on</em>, I let him fall in <strong><em>love</em></strong> with me … he died, <strong><em>loving</em></strong> me … I <strong>know</strong> he did, because there is no <em>other</em> reason, he would <strong><em>let</em></strong> me … that he’d <strong><em>want</em></strong> me to …”</p><p>I rake my fingers through my hair and <strong><em>try</em></strong> not to pass out.</p><p>This is the most I’ve spoken to her since he’s died. This is the most I’ve <strong><em>allowed</em></strong> myself to open to her.</p><p>And it’s <strong><em>so</em></strong> late now. With our <strong><em>three</em></strong> children asleep down the hall …</p><p>It was all <strong><em>so</em></strong> stupid of me … to push Ginny away <em>because</em> of twisted, <strong><em>misshapen</em></strong> offspring that <em>didn’t</em> end up happening.</p><p>Using Fred as a no-consequence <strong><em>hole</em></strong>, that was as <em>close</em> to Ginny as I could get – was so, <strong><em>so</em></strong> <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> of me.</p><p><strong><em>So</em></strong> wrong.</p><p>And I <em>won’t</em> forgive myself for it.</p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong>.</p><p>Because a <strong>part</strong> of me <em>loved</em> him, too.</p><p>Which is a betrayal – and a <strong><em>consequence</em></strong> of how close we became … and I <strong><em>never</em></strong> should have done it.</p><p>“George …” Ginny whispers, again, in a sweet coo, “Fred <strong><em>loved</em></strong> you. And if he offered you … <strong><em>that</em></strong> … well then, it’s <strong><em>because</em></strong> he loved you. It’s because he <strong>knew</strong> what being away from me, <strong><em>cost</em></strong> you …” she inches closer and I find myself too <em>weak</em> to prevent her, this time, “… and he <em>wanted</em> you to heal. He <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> to make it all <strong>better</strong> for you …”</p><p>I hiss as her palm touches my neck, making a trail straight down to my abdomen. And I let out a cry when she <em>encircles</em> the throbbing length of me in her palm.</p><p>“If he <strong><em>was</em></strong> in love with you … well then, <em>that</em> is why he let you <em>inside</em> of him … and if he’s <strong>calling</strong> to you, now … it’s because he wants you to <em>know</em> its alright, because he wouldn’t want you to <strong>linger</strong> on the <strong><em>dead</em></strong>, when you have someone <em>real</em> and <strong><em>warm</em></strong> in <strong><em>his</em></strong> bed …” I gasp in my throat and pump my hips in a rut, forward, while she grips me <strong><em>so</em></strong> tight, I fear I might burst from it.</p><p>And I don’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> to believe her.</p><p>But I <strong><em>do</em></strong> …</p><p>Because Fred wouldn’t <em>want</em> to willfully torture <em>me</em> … we played our pranks, but <strong><em>never</em></strong> on each other … He let me take him to bed that <em>first</em> time, so that I <strong><em>wouldn’t</em></strong> be tortured … and every time <strong><em>after</em></strong> for that <em>same</em> purpose …</p><p>He knows how <strong>deeply</strong> I feel. How deeply I’ve <strong><em>always</em></strong> felt …</p><p>And how sensitive I am to <strong>change</strong>. To building up my <em>emotions</em> until they <strong><em>burst</em></strong> out. He’d always tried to <strong>fix</strong> me when I broke. It’s what twins <strong><em>do</em></strong> for each other.</p><p>But Ginny has always been my <strong><em>beacon</em></strong>. The love that has burrowed like a groundhog into my <strong>heart</strong> and stayed there. <strong><em>Lived</em></strong> there.</p><p>Fred couldn’t possess my heart because it’s <strong><em>always</em></strong> been Ginny’s.</p><p>And its <em>that</em> ache that makes me twirled up the <strong><em>most</em></strong> inside. What caused me to <em>bury</em> my nights with him – my stolen moments of <em>healing</em>, of <strong><em>shelter</em></strong>, with <em>him</em>. <strong><em>My</em></strong> shame regarding <strong><em>my</em></strong> actions with <em>him</em>.</p><p>“Ginny …” I gasp as she flexes her fingers and <em>squeezes</em> my stiffened rod in her grip, “… I promised it was <strong><em>just</em></strong> you … that I would <strong><em>never</em></strong>—”</p><p>She squeezes again and I <strong>keen</strong> in the back of my throat, from the <strong>sensation</strong>.</p><p>“It’s okay, George. It all makes <strong><em>sense</em></strong> even more now …” she admits into the curve of my ear, while a few of her tears land on my shoulder.</p><p>I shiver and twitch under the <em>rock</em> and lull of her hand so firm, so <strong><em>present</em></strong>, against me.</p><p>“Your <em>needs</em> changed when I returned to your bed, <strong><em>after</em></strong> … your hands were <strong>rough</strong>, like they’ve <strong><em>always</em></strong> been … but your <em>impulses</em> had veered onto a <strong>new</strong> course … you didn’t <em>fixate</em> on my breasts like you did before … you <strong><em>used</em></strong> to suck and knead them, like you do <strong><em>now</em></strong> … but at <em>first,</em> after we took up again, you didn’t go <strong><em>near</em></strong> them … It was because when you laid with <strong><em>Fred</em></strong> it’d remind you that he <strong><em>wasn’t</em></strong> me … so you must have <strong><em>learned</em></strong> not to graze <strong>that</strong> part of <em>him</em> …” she teases into my ear and I shiver, remembering how it was <strong><em>easier</em></strong> to pretend, if I didn’t let my hands wander <strong><em>too</em></strong> much on him. I didn’t realize I’d <em>continued</em> with Ginny … because my <strong><em>mind </em></strong>hadn’t had <strong><em>any</em></strong> recollection of those memories at all … but my <strong><em>body</em></strong> must have. Some <em>small</em> corner of my body that controlled, <strong><em>touch</em></strong> memory.</p><p>“You started bending me over things, too. You were rough … <em>detached</em> … and I thought it was because of <strong><em>losing</em></strong> him, but … <strong>maybe</strong> … <strong><em>maybe</em></strong> it’s just how you <strong><em>were</em></strong>, with him,” her thumb grazes the bulbous head of my leaky erection and I jut my hips forward, in a mixture of shock and delight, “… even <em>now</em>, you draw me up on my knees and <strong>push</strong> into me from behind, and it makes me <em>soaked</em> for you … and I <strong><em>cum</em></strong> for you …” I suck in <em>air</em> between my teeth at the <strong>reminder</strong>, because I know I used to have <strong>him</strong> from <em>behind</em>, when he wasn’t on his <strong><em>back</em></strong> for me … and I’m <em>overcome</em> with emotion, “… but I always wondered <strong><em>why</em></strong> you started … because you never had that with <strong><em>me</em></strong>, before …” she swirls her thumb down and that’s all it takes for me to <em>spill</em> over her fingers, coating her in my essence and keening for her like a <strong><em>wolf</em></strong> in my throat.</p><p>She takes my orgasm in <em>stride</em>. Stroking up the base of me, coaxing me to spurt even more all over her fingers and I’m <strong><em>breathless</em></strong> – and overwhelmed with sensation, and images of <strong><em>Fred</em></strong>.</p><p>I can almost <em>see</em> him winking at me. I can almost feel him in the air – and in <strong><em>our</em></strong> bed – <strong><em>his</em></strong> bed.</p><p>And I feel ashamed, but I also feel a <em>coil</em> of lust. And it is building, fit to burst, <em>again</em> – and I’m so turned on – and so <em>damn</em> needy. And I can’t believe Ginny <em>isn’t</em> pissed at me.</p><p>I can’t believe she’s <strong>touching</strong> me – and <em>cooing</em> to me.</p><p>And loves me <strong><em>anyway</em></strong> …</p><p>Because I hurt <strong><em>her</em></strong> – to have <strong><em>him</em></strong>.</p><p>And I <em>still</em> regret that, most.</p><p>“And you would only have me on <strong><em>his</em></strong> bed … I thought it was because you <strong>lost</strong> him … because <strong><em>this</em></strong> bed is <em>part</em> of him … but it’s because you <strong><em>had</em></strong> him <em>here</em>, isn’t it?”</p><p>I gasp out a favorable sound in response, marveling at <strong><em>how</em></strong> she knows me – how she knows me <strong><em>deeper</em></strong> than I know myself.</p><p>“And when you’re connected to me <strong><em>here</em></strong> … you’re connected to <em>him</em>, <strong><em>too</em></strong> …” She’s still grazing her thumb over my weepy, <em>spent</em> cockhead, and I lean back into her, when she kisses my temple with her chin tilted up, slightly.</p><p>“<strong><em>Ginny</em></strong> …” I whisper in a mournful cry. I didn’t think I could <em>explain</em> to her the depth of these emotions. I didn’t think I could make her <strong><em>understand</em></strong> what I feel for my twin, now that these memories have resurfaced, so <em>suddenly</em>.</p><p>But she <strong><em>understands</em></strong>.</p><p>She explains them <em>for</em> me … <strong><em>to</em></strong> me ….</p><p>And I love her so <em>much</em> I think my heart is going to <strong>burst</strong> with it.</p><p>I am <em>lamented</em> in my mourning for Fred. For what <strong><em>he</em></strong> gave me …</p><p>“You <strong><em>needed</em></strong> someone to keep you sane … I could never understand why you didn’t break, like <strong><em>I </em></strong>broke. In all that time, without you … I sliced my <strong>skin</strong> and thought of the <em>pain</em> … I fell into a pit so <strong>steeped</strong> with despair, I thought I might crack and die … but I couldn’t understand <strong><em>why</em></strong> you were so unaffected by <strong><em>our</em></strong> separation … so <strong><em>able</em></strong> to turn me away … I understand <strong><em>now</em></strong>, George. I <strong><em>do</em></strong> …” she kisses at the nape of my neck, my <strong>ear</strong>, my <em>jaw</em> … “I understand how <strong><em>he</em></strong> helped you … I understand how you <strong><em>loved</em></strong> each other … and I’m <em>sorry</em>. As sorry as I’ve been since I saw you <strong><em>lose</em></strong> him all those years ago … I’m sorrier for it <em>now</em>, than I was <strong><em>then</em></strong> … because I know what you’ve <em>kept</em> inside … I know what <em>aches</em> you’ve felt …” she flicks my nipple and I shudder, bodily in her arms, “… and most <strong><em>importantly</em></strong>, I know <em>why</em> you would leave me for <strong><em>hours</em></strong> into your mind … into the <strong><em>flames</em></strong> to be with <strong><em>him</em></strong> …” she admonished.</p><p>I close my eyes and two tracks of tears <em>falter</em> and slide down the sides of my face.</p><p>“And why you <em>still</em> do, sometimes …” her own tears start to <strong><em>crack</em></strong> in her angelic voice.</p><p>I turn in her embrace and draw her <strong>onto</strong> my lap, pull her near until she’s <em>straddling</em> my hips. Until there isn’t an <strong><em>inch</em></strong> of space to be <em>had</em>, between us.</p><p>“It’s not <strong><em>fair</em></strong> to ask you to spend your <strong><em>every</em></strong> waking moment with his <em>ghost</em> in our bed … in our <strong><em>love</em></strong> making …” I impart to her with this massive hole inside my chest, ready to tear me open, from the <strong><em>inside</em></strong>.</p><p>“You haven’t <strong><em>asked</em></strong> … You don’t <strong><em>have</em></strong> to ask me, George … because I <strong>love</strong> you … and I <em>loved</em> him, too. He was <strong><em>my</em></strong> brother, too. And I don’t <strong><em>mind</em></strong> that he’s with us … I don’t mind that he’s <strong><em>here</em></strong> … that he <em>knew</em> … that he <strong><em>still</em></strong> knows … he’s <strong>welcome</strong> here … he’s welcome to live on <strong><em>inside</em></strong> of you … inside of <strong><em>our</em></strong> love … because none of the past can be <strong><em>changed</em></strong> … and <strong>because</strong> … because he’s the <strong><em>only</em></strong> member of our family that <em>accepted</em> us … accepts <strong><em>who</em></strong> we are … and for that <em>alone</em>, I want him <strong><em>here</em></strong> …”</p><p>She is trying to make it make <strong><em>sense</em></strong>. Just as I have a <em>thousand</em> times while it <strong><em>happened</em></strong> … and <em>tonight</em>, just now, when I <strong><em>remembered</em></strong>.</p><p>And I <em>connect</em> to what she means. I <strong><em>understand</em></strong> – even if no one <em>else</em> would.</p><p>And it makes me fall in <strong>love</strong> with her again.</p><p>It makes her mean so <strong><em>much</em></strong> more to me than she <strong><em>already</em></strong> does.</p><p>And I want to <strong><em>lose</em></strong> myself in her. I want to <strong><em>think</em></strong> about her – when I think about <strong><em>him</em></strong> – and not feel <em>guilt</em>. Not feel it <strong><em>eat</em></strong> at my insides.</p><p>And she seems to <em>see</em> me, spacing away in my head, like I <strong><em>always</em></strong> do, because her hands <strong><em>lift</em></strong> to cup my cheeks.</p><p>I feel the warmth of her pulling me <strong><em>back</em></strong> and I blink, reconciling with the <strong>calming</strong> sensation in my belly.</p><p>“I want to <strong><em>see</em></strong> …” her lips are <em>inches</em> from mine and her voice is <strong>low</strong> and gentle, “… will you <strong><em>let</em></strong> me?”</p><p>I have my hands on her waist. I feel her skin so <em>warm</em> and heavenly in my grip, and I feel her cunt <strong>soaked</strong> and hot over my sensitive prick and I don’t <em>have</em> to think about it. I <strong><em>have</em></strong> my answer.</p><p>My memories … are <strong><em>her</em></strong> memories …</p><p>We don’t <em>keep</em> secrets. We <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>, anymore.</p><p>So, I reach for my wand, stationed on our bedside table. Hold the wooden handle between my lengthy fingers and use <em>occlumency</em> to let her in. I let her <strong><em>see</em></strong>.</p><p><em>Everything</em>. <strong><em>All</em></strong> of it.</p><p>The nights we spent <em>entwined</em> together.</p><p>My <em>twin</em> and <strong><em>I</em></strong>.</p><p>No boundaries, nothing but skin and kisses. So <strong><em>many</em></strong> kisses.</p><p>I let her see how I’d <strong>take</strong> him. On hands and knees, on <em>his</em> back, on his <strong><em>front</em></strong> … wherever the <em>fancy</em> struck. Whenever <strong><em>it</em></strong> struck.</p><p>I took and <strong><em>he</em></strong> gave. It was <em>raw</em> – and oftentimes staked with <strong>need</strong> and urgency, but it was <em>always</em> just <strong><em>us</em></strong>. And I’d think of <strong><em>her</em></strong>. My <strong><em>Ginny</em></strong>.</p><p>I’d always have <em>her</em> in my mind. Because I was <strong><em>always</em></strong> drunk. Always <strong><em>wasted</em></strong>.</p><p>Sometimes, Fred was <strong><em>too</em></strong>. Others, it appeared he was <strong><em>sober</em></strong> – and just wanted to bring me <strong><em>back</em></strong> to him. Same as Ginny wanted to bring me back to <strong><em>her</em></strong>.</p><p>It was a cycle of so <strong><em>many</em></strong> emotions. So many <strong><em>constituencies</em></strong>.</p><p>I find arousal as I <em>watch</em>, relive those nights with Fred. I start to <strong><em>kiss</em></strong> her lips, at some point. And when my skin starts to <strong>tingle</strong> with fresh waves of need, I hoist her up and push her into the <strong><em>sheets</em></strong>. I hear her squeal – and I smell <em>Fred</em> in the air.</p><p>His <em>essence</em> – his <strong><em>sweat</em></strong> – and I know he’s <em>watching</em> this time.</p><p>I know <strong><em>he’s</em></strong> here with us.</p><p>Whether it’s the <em>memory</em> of Fred, or his <strong><em>presence</em></strong> I am sensing, I don’t <strong>stop</strong> to think, and I won’t ever <strong><em>know</em></strong> for sure. But I <strong><em>believe</em></strong> it’s him.</p><p>Like <strong><em>actually</em></strong> him.</p><p>Because he <em>deserves</em> to be here. He <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to be.</p><p>And I know <em>Ginny</em> thinks so, too.</p><p>I hear it, <strong>carved</strong> into the very thoughts in her <em>mind</em> – skimmed into her <strong>bodice</strong> that aches to have me <strong><em>fill</em></strong> it. And I dip <strong>down</strong> my head and I <strong><em>drink</em></strong> from her full milk-clad breasts. And she <strong><em>cries</em></strong> for me.</p><p>I push into her with the <em>bulk</em> of my need and I <strong><em>see</em></strong> Fred. I see him for a <strong>flicker</strong> of an instant, underneath me, in <strong><em>place</em></strong> of her.</p><p>I feel his muscled arms in my <strong><em>biceps</em></strong> and I hear his little <em>sigh</em> in my ear. I hear <em>him</em> – I feel <strong>him</strong>. The same way I used to <em>feel</em> and <strong>hear</strong> <strong><em>Ginny</em></strong>, when I took <strong><em>him</em></strong> …</p><p>And I <em>know</em> its him, claiming <strong>another</strong> piece of my soul for his own. Probably another <strong>chip</strong> off of the piece he <strong>carried</strong> off with him, when he <strong><em>departed</em></strong> this world. And I <em>let</em> him have it. He deserves it.</p><p>For <strong><em>how</em></strong> he died … for how he was <strong><em>selfless</em></strong> when it came to <strong><em>me</em></strong>.</p><p>And I kiss Ginny’s <strong><em>scalding</em></strong> lips and silently tell Fred, that I <strong><em>love</em></strong> him.</p><p>I push <em>deep</em> into Ginny – and she squeaks in a low <strong>release</strong> of air, and my <strong>flesh</strong> feels scattered and loopy. <strong><em>I</em></strong> feel scattered and loopy.</p><p>And when I <strong>cry</strong> out this time, and I feel my seed spill into <strong>her</strong>, something feels <strong><em>different</em></strong> this time.</p><p>Like a <em>presence</em> … something <strong><em>spiritual</em></strong> – beyond my <em>control</em>. And my wand I didn’t even know had still been clasped in my hand, is <strong><em>released</em></strong> and collides with the sheets.</p><p>I’m still in the immediate <strong><em>after</em></strong>, as I try to process <strong><em>what</em></strong> just happened. What I <strong><em>felt</em></strong>.</p><p>What <strong><em>Ginny</em></strong> too, felt.</p><p>I know she felt it, because when I open my eyes, she has <strong>tears</strong> in hers – and she reaches up with her hand to cup at my cheek in a soft <em>manner</em>. And I return that <strong>glance</strong> … peer at her, with <em>instilled</em>, <strong><em>wonder</em></strong>.</p><p>“<em>George</em> I …” she starts to say, then trails off.</p><p>But I dip my head down to kiss her lips and nuzzle in at the cusp of her neck, where I whisper a few words of my own, “I <strong><em>know</em></strong> …” I say, gently.</p><p>And I <strong><em>do</em></strong>.</p><p>It feels like Fred’s <em>soul</em> encroached on us. And fed <strong><em>through</em></strong> us. Through our <em>veins</em>, through our <strong>bodies</strong> … and then he was <em>warm</em> and <strong>real</strong>.</p><p>Like he was <strong><em>promising</em></strong> that he’d soon <em>return</em> to me. He’d come <strong><em>home</em></strong> to me.</p><p>And I am starting to <strong><em>cry</em></strong> uncontrollably, now. Because I <strong>understand</strong> what he meant, but I don’t think I can <strong><em>believe</em></strong> it just yet. I am not <strong><em>ready</em></strong> to believe that its <strong>possible</strong>.</p><p>That the haunting of my <em>spirit</em> – my <strong><em>mind</em></strong> – will end, because he will no longer <strong><em>be</em></strong> a spirit on the <em>other</em> side. He’s not in the <strong>veil</strong> anymore. He’s <strong><em>here</em></strong>. He’s going to start growing <strong><em>anew</em></strong>, in <strong><em>our</em></strong> sister.</p><p>“Do you <em>think</em> …?” Ginny starts to ask and trails off, curiosity in her beautiful eyes.</p><p>My hand lowers to her <strong>belly</strong>, presses into her abdomen where my <strong><em>seed</em></strong> is nestled right now, working <strong>up</strong> towards her womb. My eyes crinkle with <em>emotion</em>.</p><p>“I <strong><em>felt</em></strong> him …” I whisper, and her hand moves over mine in a gentle motion and squeezes.</p><p>“So, did <strong><em>I</em></strong> … I <strong><em>still</em></strong> do …” she admits in a soft whisper and I feel a <em>tingle</em> course up my spine, because<strong><em> I</em></strong> don’t feel him anymore. He’s gone from <strong><em>me</em></strong>. But I know if she still <strong><em>feels</em></strong> him … I know what <strong><em>that</em></strong> means. And I just dip my head and kiss her lips <strong><em>again</em></strong>.</p><p>We <em>will</em> see him again – in <strong><em>nine</em></strong> months.</p><p>I <strong><em>believe</em></strong> that – with every <em>fiber</em> in my being – in my heart and <strong><em>soul</em></strong>.</p>
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